Why Death Can Sound So Sweet
by childofchild
Summary: They always say that there is someone out there for you . . . but what if that someone is beyond your reach?


Disclaimer:        Frodo Baggins of the Shire and Gandalf the Grey (or later known as the White) are creations of Tolkien.

            The one regret Tolkien left me with was that Frodo was forever after alone--for all eternity.  This is no more to my liking than Tolkien's ending, but then again, at the time of this writing I was not in the highest of spirits.

            *Note:  These are journal entries Gandalf finds.  The first is by Frodo when he sails across the sea on the elven ship, and the second is by a girl from our own world.

**Why Death Can Sound So Sweet**

*~*~*~*~*~*

7 October 1421

(Shire Reckoning)

            What is that noise that calls to me in the dead of night, when not should be awake 'cept those of terror and plague?  Why do I alone hear the voice of Death whispering to me when the planks creak and moan in hard labors long overdue.

            When I walk the listing deck beneath the starlight sky, all about me is serene and beautiful.  The ocean is vast and seemingly endless.  It should have no bounds--should have to answer to no one.  Yet, it does!  It is as false as anything!  It is not an endless creation but has limits just as do I.  If I were to jump overboard, would I not sink beneath its dark surface?  I cannot hope to walk on water.  Why?  Because it is so!  I shan't look up into the heavens and will them to let me fly, for I am but a hobbit--a poor wingless hobbit.  Heaven does not give me wings and neither does my will, for both are lacking in reality.  Or, rather, both _are reality, and so do not bend to the longings of one who comes to hate and despise of that which__ must be true._

              My chest aches with something long lost or forgotten.  So buried in the past that I fear I shall never come to know what it is.  But it gives me a pain--sharp and cold--within the left side of my chest.  My gut fills hollow, as empty as a black abyss.  Should I try to fill it with substance I find that I become sick and mustn't look to that for reassurance anymore.  I must sit and look to the 'scape in hopes my mind will forget the pain, but that does naught but intensify it.

            What is that voice, that voice that whispers of an empty rest that may stanch my pain?  I fear it is none but Death calling me.

            I long to answer.

                                                                                    --Frodo Baggins of the Shire No Where

            _I found the journal upon the elven ship's rail; the string was unraveled and most the sheets had blown away upon the wind.  This entry was beneath them all and I deem it was his last.--Gandalf the White, 8 October 1421.  _

*~*~*~*~*~*

October 7, 2001

            I walk( . . . . )m in a dream.  I hear mocking laughter( . . . . )unforgiving voic( . . . . )words seem always to escape me.  I reach out but always it eludes me, though the meaning sometimes seems to be so clear( . . . . )my chest aches uncontrollably.  I look at all my friends and fam( . . . . )faces are alighted( . . . . )joy.  I want that . . .( . . . . )o notice that something is eating me alive, and perhaps it is no concern of theirs.  Surely, not.  I shouldn't blame them, for it is me( . . . . )t hurts so much, though( . . . . )  Fire is( . . . . )eautiful.  It licks and wriths so perfectly, and the temptation sometimes is more than I can bear.  Death can't possible be wors( . . . . )the pain is too great.

                                                                                    --Forever Alone

_            This was the only entry to escape the fire--and even that was barely, for there are parts unreadable due to ash and the smearing of ink.  The rest was destroyed--the child along with it.--Gandalf the White, 8 October 2001._

*~*~*~*~*~*

            Gandalf lifted up the sheaves of parchment with a gnarled hand, in the other he grasped a thin fire-scorched book.  His old face was twisted in grief and thin tears rolled down his weathered features.

            "You had thought yourself alone," he said, bringing the book and the parchment together before him.  He stood before a tall Maple tree, whose yellow and red leaves rustled softly in Winter's icy breath. Gandalf shivered.  "Yet here I hold two writings, and they both lay bare the same grief and pain.  Each felt as had the other . . ."

            Gandalf stood there for many moments and the wind whipped mournfully at his white robes.  Finally, he bent and rested both book and parchments at the base of the maple.  Straightening, he gazed down at both.  

            Then, he turned away.

            They always say that there is someone out there for you . . . but what if that someone is beyond your reach?


End file.
